


The Jensen Model

by pianoforeplay



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-23
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 21:57:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pianoforeplay/pseuds/pianoforeplay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Jeffrey is an artist, Jared is mysterious, Jensen is a blow-up doll and Michael Rosenbaum is Jiminy Cricket. The classic, childhood tale of Pinocchio completely and utterly ruined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Jensen Model

**Author's Note:**

> Major warnings on this one for some implied off-screen bestiality and some dub-con action veering dangerously close to non-con. Please tread carefully. Written for j2-everafter and initially posted [here](http://pianoforeplay.livejournal.com/15980.html) on 1/29/09.

Once upon a time in a land not so very far away at all, there lived a great artist. However, like many gifted artists of his day, there were few who appreciated the direction and depth of his talent and so he was relegated to near anonymity. He worked out of a tiny shop on the top floor of a rather decrepit two-story building where he constructed exquisite pieces of art, though many thought of them only as toys. But, Jeffrey -- for that was his name -- was not unhappy with the life he led, nor upset with the lack of appreciation he received. Rather, he preferred it, content to while away the hours in his lonely, dusty workshop, surrounded by his creations and creations-to-be.

He wasn't _always_ alone, however, as his store did have the odd customer or two and the occasional visitor. The most frequent caller was a man named Michael, who operated the shop just beneath Jeffrey's. In fact, Michael's visits were so commonplace that Jeffrey often wondered if the man ever received any patrons himself. Or if, perhaps, he simply didn't notice them.

"Man, you got any peanut butter?" Michael asked one particular evening as he stumbled through the open doorway of Jeffrey's store.

Deeply enthralled with his latest project, Jeffrey glanced up only briefly, a paintbrush in hand.

"In the back," he instructed and then returned his attention to the task at hand, that of meticulously painting the finishing touches on his latest work of art. The addition of freckles had been a last-minute stroke of genius and he was determined to get each exactly right, a faint scattering over cheek and nose, a few over shoulders and chest. One or two strategically placed in other areas as well.

Michael returned moments later, cradling a tub of peanut butter close to his chest and using one of Jeffrey's finer phallic creations as a spoon. He made an appreciative noise and said, "Lookin' good, hombre," before sucking off a large dollop of creamy brown goo that clung to the tip of the dildo.

Jeffrey nodded and began lengthening the eyelashes on his creation as he felt Michael take a step closer.

"This is a strange one," he remarked quietly, as though mostly to himself. "Special."

"Special?" Mike asked, his words muddled and sticky with peanut butter.

Jeffrey glanced up to see Michael's unique use of his art piece for the first time and arched one eyebrow. "You'll be paying for that," he said quite decisively.

Michael grinned and licked the tip of the dark dildo again before he nodded at Jeffrey's work. "So, this your masterpiece or something? The end-all, be-all of marvelous, kinky toys?"

Jeffrey preferred not to think of his creations in such crude terminology. To Jeffrey, each piece was a work of art, lovingly and painstakingly crafted to produce pleasure for the individual in possession of it, not just, as Michael insisted on calling them, 'dirty, kinky sex toys.' He didn't doubt that Michael agreed with his sentiments, but the man rarely said as much with words.

"Yes, something like that," he said rather dully as he pulled back to admire what he'd accomplished so far. "He... speaks to me."

Michael licked his lips and scooped the dildo into the tub again. "What, you mean spiritually?" he asked, voice brighter, face slowly breaking into a smile. "'Cause, man, I totally get that! I'm the same way about this new line of car decals we just got in. I mean, they range in subject- political and cultural and environmental and some are just, like, 'Fuck your Honors Student up the ass' or whatever, but the second I started putting them up in the store, I just had this, like... _epiphany_ , man. Like, this is _exactly_ what I was meant to do with my life. _This_. Right here."

It wasn't unusual for Jeffrey to not understand Michael and, while typically his singular response would've been to nod silently in agreement, this time he was sure they were talking about two very separate things.

"No," he said as he brushed a thumb over the smooth material that made up his creation's cheek. "I mean that he speaks to me. Actual words. Very quietly, but I can hear him."

Silence from Michael was quite uncommon, but Jeffrey was all too aware that his revelation sounded absurd; he hardly believed it himself. Though, as an under-appreciated artist, he felt it only inevitable that his innate eccentricity eventually come to light and the present, in his opinion, was as appropriate a time as any.

"He speaks," Michael said eventually, his voice once again thick with peanut butter.

"Yes."

"Mmm," Michael responded, grimaced as he swallowed and then attempted to speak again. "'Zactly what does he _say_?"

Jeffrey would have been happy to answer that had his creation not done it for him, a quiet, faraway voice echoing from between the hollow of red, painted lips. " _Want_ ," it whimpered and, out the corner of his eye, Jeffrey saw Michael nearly drop his dildo-cum-spoon straight to the floor.

"Yes, that," he said and proudly swiped his thumb along his creation's bottom lip.

Hunger was an important attribute of his design, along with trust and obedience and, once Michael left his establishment, he would be sure to briefly satisfy his artwork's cravings. For Jeffrey was a perfectionist and insisted on testing each and every piece to full satisfaction. This one would be no different.

"Whoa," Mike exhaled around the dark shaft of his spoon. "That's... fuckin' trippy."

Jeffrey only smiled, his attention still focused on the beautiful face of his creation, marveling at the shade of green he'd chosen for the eyes, the cat-like shape he'd settled on, one just slightly larger than the other.

"What do you call it?" Mike asked and Jeffrey smiled softly as he turned to look back at his friend.

"Jensen," he said, clearly quite pleased with the name, the way it fell easily from his lips and the way it sounded like none that he'd ever heard before. "I'm calling him Jensen."

:::

The Jensen model was not the first of its kind, for Jeffrey had made many similar previous attempts. The fruits of his labor lay in heaps around his workshop: sad, limp piles of thin plastic in all different shapes, sizes, colors, and states of completion. But, there had been something special about the Jensen model from the very beginning, something that Jeffrey suspected had to do with the its curious ability to speak.

It had started off soft, a quiet mewling sound as Jeffrey molded the plastic, creating arms and legs and torso and then had gradually intensified, becoming more pained and woeful as Jeffrey had begun to sew the pieces together. The sounds had been there even before Jeffrey had painted a mouth, before any facial features at all, soft and vulnerable, like a quiet, frightened animal. It had hurt Jeffrey to hear them, but he'd persevered, determined to give his creation the means to truly communicate and the ability to fulfill its purpose.

The moment Jeffrey had inflated the Jensen model to its full height, he became convinced of his own genius. It stood tall with broad shoulders and wide chest, smooth, strong lines that tapered down to a narrow waist and hips. The legs he had designed to be slightly bowed in an attempt to give it character, to differentiate it from the lesser creations of shallower and more narrow-minded artists in the area, those only in pursuit of mass production and monetary compensation. The Jensen model was not going to be just like every other of its kind on the market, he was _art_. He was special.

Jeffrey had long prided himself on paying the highest regard to detail and he was committed to doing absolutely no less with his masterpiece. The face was painted with the utmost care, definition given to muscle on arms and leg, chest, stomach and rear. Every hair was meticulously crafted, the penis and testicles molded and shaped to loving perfection. Jeffrey was determined to make his creation as utterly lifelike as possible, with no detail too small, no tiny mark out of place.

Which was why, one night, while in the midst of testing the pleasure level of his latest creation, he was unsurprised to witness the Jensen model move completely of its own accord. It was rough to be sure and accompanied by a soft and pained groan, as though it was awakening from a deep slumber, muscle and bone stiff from absolute lack of use.

Jeffrey stopped his movements, but otherwise stayed as he was, buried deep inside the anal entrance of his creation, the material there specially designed to be softer and warmer compared to the rest of the creation so as to not chafe. As easy to lubricate as it was to clean.

"Please," Jeffrey's creation murmured, the word quiet, yet distinct despite its inability to properly move its lips. (For obvious reasons, Jeffrey had designed his model's mouth to stay perpetually open.)

Jeffrey ran a soothing hand down his model's side, the thin, durable plastic cool under his touch. "Shhh, I got you," he murmured and then gently rocked his hips forward once more, pushing deeper still. "See? I've got-- _ohhh_ , oh yeah, I've got ya. _Fuck_ , you're-- you're perfect. So-- beautiful, Jensen-- so _beautiful_."

The Jensen model gave a soft, pained whine that Jeffrey quickly took the time to catalog as 'mild discomfort paired with burgeoning arousal' and silently congratulated himself on a job well done before bringing himself to completion.

:::

The trial period for the Jensen model was extensive as Jeffrey made absolutely certain to be extremely thorough. He judged taste and mobility as well as durability and the general, overall pleasure experience. Each orifice was exhaustively tested for depth and suction with mouth, finger and, most importantly, cock. The penis was modified and the lips brushed fuller to optimize the aesthetic appeal and, through it all, the model began to speak more often and more loudly.

Eventually, he was able to form complete sentences and, Jeffrey found, seemed to have quite the sexual appetite.

"More," it groaned during yet another trial session, the soft plastic squeaking softly under each thrust of Jeffrey's hips. And Jeffrey gave, gave as much as he could, his lips working along the smooth material that made up his creation's neck, gave until the backs of his thighs ached and sweat coated his skin, gave until he was utterly and completely spent.

The Jensen model softly whined and encouraged, stroked him with tender, air-filled hands, and Jeffrey kissed its plush, parted, plastic mouth.

:::

Despite how it may have appeared, the artist did leave his home and workplace from time to time, usually to acquire food as well as to gather ideas for his next great piece of art. He never took the Jensen model with him on any such excursions, however, and instead left his creation alone on the second floor of the small, rundown building without means of nourishment or entertainment.

After all, though his creation could speak and move on its own, it never quite occurred to Jeffrey that it was in fact _alive_ and he therefore believed nourishment and entertainment to be wholly unnecessary.

The artist's good friend Michael, however, did not share this opinion and so, on the occasions where Jeffrey took it upon himself to venture out into the world, Michael would happily meander upstairs to keep the Jensen model company, leaving the shop in the dubiously capable hands of his single employee, Tom. During these visits, Michael would explain the wonders of the world to his inflatable friend, speak of magical, far off places full of beautiful and extravagant buildings and diverse, mysterious people. He would weave tales of adventure and love and war and peace, describe animal and plant and landscape, everything and anything the Jensen model craved to hear. For the Jensen model did not only have a voracious sexual appetite, but was also endlessly curious about the world around him, the world he only ever saw out the single window of Jeffrey's second story workshop.

"I want to see it," he told Michael one evening from where he stood propped up against a wall as Michael switched back and forth between the settings on a rather large vibrator, seemingly enthralled by the quiet buzzing sound that rose and diminished in volume with relation to speed. (The contraption had been one of Jeffrey's earliest creations and was rather crude in shape and design. It wasn't the first time Michael had found himself entranced by it.)

"See what?" he asked, flipping the speed up a notch and breaking into giggles as it hummed excitedly in his grip.

"The world," the Jensen model replied and then sighed heavily as though a great weight rested on his shoulders. "I feel trapped here. I want-- I want to see the things you always talk about, the cities and people and animals. I want to see it all."

Michael glanced up, a slow frown curving his lips. "But, you can't," he said. "The world outside isn't made for things like you. You'd get hurt."

The Jensen model blinked. "Oh," he said and then went very quiet.

After a long moment of silence, the whirl of the toy started up again abruptly and Michael giggled.

"Why not?" the Jensen model finally asked and Michael turned the speed down in order to better hear him.

"Well-- you're different," Michael said, moving from his chair to approach his plastic companion. "People out there wouldn't know what to do with you. They'd pr"

"But, everyone's different, that's what you've said. So, if I'm different and they're all different then maybe we're not so different after all. Maybe we're the same, but in different ways."

Michael frowned. He was sure he hadn't ingested quite enough herbal enhancements to be able to understand that.

"I don't think I'm so very different from you," the Jensen model continued. Michael was almost convinced the creation was sulking.

"You don't have _skin_ , man."

"I do!" the Jensen model insisted. "I have skin just like you!"

Mike opened his mouth to protest, but a sound caught his attention. Quiet, but unmistakable. Frowning curiously, he looked at the Jensen model, his gaze slowly lowering as the sound petered away to a soft whistle. Finally, he was looking down at the slightly deflated shaft of the Jensen model's penis.

"Oh, shit," he murmured and immediately dropped to his knees to inspect the its lower region. Michael could only imagine Jeffrey's anger should the man come home to find his masterpiece damaged. His hand worked swiftly over the plastic, searching and smoothing and poking, making the Jensen model groan and whimper and squirm against the wall. After only a few moments, Michael was somewhat surprised to find that the Jensen model's penis had re-inflated to its previous size. And then some.

"Huh," Michael said, releasing his hold and pushing himself up to his feet again. "Guess I fixed it."

The Jensen model whimpered.

"But, I'm serious, Jen," Michael continued as he stepped back and took a seat atop Jeffrey's workbench, one thumb still flicking over the controls of the motorized dildo. "There's some dangerous shit out there. Real creeps and weirdos. Jackasses and perverts and, like, _clowns_ and shit."

"Clowns," the Jensen model echoed, trying the word on for size, though his voice was still thready, skin still humming from Michael's touch.

Michael shuddered visibly at the word and then continued. "I'm serious! _Real_ creeps, man. We're talkin' pedophiles and dog fuckers and horse fuck _ees_ and dudes who get off on wearing diapers and sucking on pacifiers. Donkey shows and furries and chicks who eject tennis balls out their cooters, which-- okay, that's actually pretty cool, I'll show you a video later, but man. That other shit?" Michael shook his head with a sigh before pointing at the Jensen model abruptly. "And you-- dude, you'd just be _prime_ for the kill to them. With that mouth of yours and that sweet ass, fucking _made_ to be sexually used. Not to mention you can't really put up much of a fight. You're a sexual deviant's wet dream, Jen."

Despite what was most certainly a warning, the Jensen model had a hard time believing sexual deviancy could be such a bad thing. After all, his very existence seemed to condone such behavior.

"Oh, don't get me wrong," Michael argued, though the Jensen model hadn't actually said anything. "Some of that shit ain't all bad and some of it's pretty harmless, but, dude. Kiddie porn and, like, donkey suckers? _Not_ cool."

A silence settled once again -- not even the whirl of the vibrator could be heard -- as Michael stared intently at the Jensen model, the expression on his face unlike any the Jensen model had previously seen. Earnest.

"You got me, man?"

Feeling more than a little bit chastised, the Jensen model nodded.

:::

It was much the same for many months and, as time passed, the Jensen model's restlessness and frustration only intensified.

He wasn't entirely unhappy, of course. Jeffrey continued to be exceptionally proud of his artwork and placed it in the highest regard: up on a table where Jeffrey could look on its perfection whenever he chose to do so. The Jensen model was also well taken care of, cleaned daily and occasionally satisfied of his hunger. But his position on the table provided him an unobstructed view out the window and his desire to explore the world grew by the minute.

Michael still visited frequently and had taken to bringing the Jensen model clothing from his own store, brightly colored shirts and pants and skirts, some with fringe and some with beads. All handcrafted, though not by Michael himself.

"He isn't a mannequin," Jeffrey argued gruffly one afternoon, hunched over his work station as Michael dropped a bagful of clothing by the Jensen model's feet and began rummaging though it.

"Hey, chill, my good man," Michael replied as he pulled out a t-shirt. It was bright orange with the words, ' _Yes, They're Real_ ' emblazoned in blue lettering on the front. Jeffrey scowled darkly. "Just a little dress up. Not gonna make him walk the street corner, I promise."

"That is appalling."

"No, it's _art_ ," Michael replied with a grand air while the Jensen model happily lifted his arms so that Michael could fit the shirt over his head.

"Appalling and insulting," Jeffrey amended, watching his creation smooth an inflated hand down the front of the shirt. "He looks better naked."

"Chill out. You just don't know how to appreciate other forms of art," Michael sighed and the Jensen model stood awkwardly between them. The orange was very bright, but he didn't find it unpleasant and the fabric provided an unaccustomed warmth.

Jeffrey's frown deepened as he turned his gaze on his creation. "Do you like it, Jensen?"

The Jensen model faltered, wide eyes slipping from his creator to his friend and back again. His heart knew the answer, but he feared the consequences of such a reply and so shook his head.

"No," he said, voice hushed and the quiet sound of air releasing could immediately be heard.

Looking downward, he sighed.

:::

After another agonizing month of staring out the window, of Michael's tales and fantastic stories, of aching to see everything beyond the four walls in which he was imprisoned, Jensen could take it no longer.

He left while Jeffrey was out getting groceries and while Michael raided Jeffrey's workbench for evidence of the artist's latest design prototype, dressed only in one of Michael's rather garish and significantly oversized baja pullovers, hood raised to shield his face as much as possible. It was meant as protection, flimsy and inadequate to be sure, but the only form he possessed. For his observations through Jeffrey's window had only helped supply further evidence to Michael's claims that the Jensen model was quite different from normal people.

Just how different he truly was became apparent the moment he reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped out into the world. Immediately, he was surrounded by a loud cacophony of vehicles and passing strangers, barking shouts and screeching tires and blaring car horns. It shook him, startled him to his hollow core and he stood frozen in place until something suddenly bumped into him, knocking him without warning straight to the ground.

"Oh, dude, I'm sorry!" came a voice from above as one large hand reached down to grab the Jensen model's arm. "Here, let me--"

"I'm fine," the Jensen model insisted, pulling away from the touch as though burned, stiffly scrambling to his feet.

"Whoa, hey," came the voice again and the Jensen model glanced up to see the source lifting two enormous hands in surrender, a quirk of a smile curving his lips. This man was the first person the Jensen model had every truly spoken to aside from Jeffrey and Michael, as Jeffrey had always forbidden him from speaking to customers and Tom never ventured upstairs.

He was enthralled.

"You alrigh'?" the man asked, his smile faltering as he lowered his hands. The Jensen model found he couldn't look away from the man's eyes, instantly trying in vain to place the color, though he couldn't say why.

"Y-- yes," he eventually managed, ducking his head and crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm fine."

The man appeared unconvinced. "Look, I'm really sorry. I didn't-- let me buy you a coffee or something. Maybe a soda?" The Jensen model peeked up at him from beneath the hood of his baja. "Tea? or orange juice? Water? Anything remotely liquid-y?"

The Jensen model felt a strange, inexplicable warmth at both the man's joking, friendly tone and his offer and nodded without even needing to think about it, felt the heat within him flare as the smile on the man's face immediately brightened. In his time locked in Jeffrey's workshop, the Jensen model had seen very few real faces up close, but he was certain that even if he'd seen several thousand, none would compare to the one before him now. The man was very tall, easily taller than both Jeffrey and Michael and he had an open and friendly smile, a large but well-shaped nose. There was a small, dark mark on one cheek, another low on his chin and a smaller one by his eye. Another low on his neck. His lips were thin and his teeth startlingly white and the Jensen model was positive that had Jeffrey seen this man, he'd have absolutely made a work of art in his likeness.

Just as he was about to verbally accept the invitation, he was interrupted by a flurry of arms and words and a new, unfamiliar voice.

" _Jay_! Jay, dude, c'mon," the new stranger said, tugging at the large, handsome man's arm, pulling him away.

Startled, the Jensen model took a step back and attempted to shrink deeper into the relative safety of his baja hoodie.

"Wait, hold up, man, I'm tryin' to--"

"Yeah, I don't fucking care, come _on_. I ain't missing titties just because you can't move your slow ass."

" _Chad_ \-- Jesus, dude. Don't be an asshole."

"Then don't be a _pussy_ , douchemunch. What's your deal anyway?"

"This guy, I just--"

The large, handsome man -- who most often went by Jay to a few close friends, JT to even closer friends and by Jared to everyone else -- stopped his words short and stared at the empty spot where there had once been a person. Or at least what he'd thought was a person.

"Dude, where'd he go?"

His companion -- a smaller, lighter-haired man who went by the name Chad to acquaintances and friends alike, though there were really very, very few of the later -- gave a speculative frown. "Who?"

"The guy-- right here. He was right here."

"Uh-huh," Chad replied dubiously. "Probably just some homeless weirdo, Jay. Forget it. Now, c'mon, we gots naked boobies to see! Lots of 'em! Limited time only, bro! Don't make me whip out the leash and collar again."

"No, he was..." Jared's voice trailed off as he did a slow circle, eyes searching before and behind and across the street for the strange man in the even stranger dress. Chad made a gruff, irritated noise beside him and Jared finally relented, though quite obviously reluctantly.

Several feet away, the Jensen model stood hunched in the shadow of a doorway, watching as the mysterious, beautiful man let himself be led off by his friend. And he ached.

:::

It took very little time for the Jensen model to realize that Michael had been absolutely right- the real world had no place for a piece of art such as himself. The looks he received on the streets oozed of either overt curiosity or overt revulsion, though some were kinder about it than others. And even when the people weren't cruel and derisive, the weather certainly was. The nights were the harshest, forcing the Jensen model to take shelter wherever he could find it: under bridges and overhangs, behind trash bins and parked cars, wrapped up in a bundle of soaking wet blankets. He had it better than most, he knew, the sturdy material that made up his skin prevented him from feeling the chill quite as severely as those around him. But it was the cold coupled with the aching loneliness that made it all the more miserable.

On his fourth night out in the world, the Jensen model had a revelation brought on by the memory of something Michael had mentioned to him several months prior in the safety of Jeffrey's workshop.

' _You're special, Jen_ ," he'd said (Michael had been the only one to ever call him 'Jen' and, for a reason he couldn't quite explain, the Jensen model had always felt comforted by it) and then taken another slow inhale from his thick cigarette. ' _You were made with a_ purpose _, you know? Some people maybe don't get that purpose, don't see the higher meaning behind what you do, but fuck 'em. You're lucky, Jen. You_ know _your purpose, always have from the day you were... molded or whatever. Made. Don't have to go lookin' for it like the rest of us poor bastards._ "

Jeffrey had designed him to provide physical pleasure, and furthermore, had designed him in such a way that to do so gave the Jensen model a profound sense of fulfillment and completion. He'd always known that, had always _felt_ it.

Which was how the Jensen model realized he could provide for himself- by doing just exactly what he was meant to do.

It wasn't easy at first; many of his potential clients flat-out refused his services after taking one look at his inflated body and painted face. But, he learned to work the seedier bars, the joints where most of the patrons left the establishment barely sober enough to stay upright, much less able to distinguish the exact features of the person propositioning them. Though he learned to be careful, as sometimes they were also too drunk to pay afterward.

But, he _did_ learn and he improved and, if it still wasn't quite like being real or accepted, it was at least a little closer. Closer than he'd ever believed he'd get.

:::

This continued for some time. Long enough that the Jensen model began to lose track of the days and nights, long enough that, though he clung to them as well as he could, the memories of Jeffrey and Michael slowly began to fade into the background.

But he was very good at what he did and, as a result, developed a sizable clientele. That is to say, he saw a handful of regular faces hanging around the areas he frequented, not that he believed any of them actually remembered where they'd spent their money the previous evening. He was not one to pick and choose, his clients varying in age, race, gender, appearance and status; his singular priority being that they be almost blindingly drunk or at least too drunk to throw a proper punch if they got too good a look at him.

There were strangers, too. Many faces he saw only once and never again, many faces he wished he'd never seen at all.

And, though he couldn't explain it, the Jensen model sometimes felt he was being watched by an outside party. There would be a shift of shadow along a brick wall, the inexplicable scuff of shoes against gravel, the clipped voice of someone that belonged to neither himself nor the customer he happened to be pleasuring at the time. Terror would rocket through him in those moments, making his movements even stiffer than normal, awkward and rushed. More often than not, his customer was too drunk to notice, but occasionally they would be more sober than he'd assumed.

' _What is it?_ ' they would ask, voices ragged and hushed and the Jensen model would go tense from head to foot.

' _Nothing. It's nothing,_ ' he would say and then would immediately be forced to hide the fact that his penis was leaking a steady stream of air, an embarrassing, annoying and occasionally debilitating ailment he hadn't yet learned to cure.

Luckily, there'd been only the odd occasion or two where this had made any impact in his work, but that had been more than enough for him to devise ways with which to avoid it in the future.

It wasn't a safe life in the least, but the Jensen model never once entertained thoughts of returning to Jeffrey. For while he missed both Jeffrey and Michael dearly, he was sure that, should he return home, Jeffrey would only lock him away again, this time so that he could never again escape. And, a life stuck forever behind the same four walls was not a life that the Jensen model wished for himself. So, even the nights where he received punches and insults instead of cold, hard cash for his troubles, the Jensen model carried on, determined that, someday, his fortune would change.

:::

Unbeknownst to the Jensen model, his dear old friends had not forgotten him. In fact, since the moment he'd disappeared, Michael and Jeffrey had never once stopped mourning their loss and had never once stopped looking and hoping for his return. Michael had convinced Tom to assist in the distribution of the signs Jeffrey had made, each depicting a perfect likeness of Jeffrey's masterpiece along with: 'If Found Please Return to' and the address of Jeffrey's shop.

At first optimistic of the Jensen model's return (after all, there were very few individuals of his description walking about), he was never found nor returned to them; they never received so much as an inkling as to his whereabouts. As a result, Jeffrey slowly grew more and more despondent, spending night after a night holed up in his workshop, all creativity and motivation utterly drained. Michael did his best to lift his friend's spirits, but as he largely blamed himself for the Jensen model's disappearance in the first place, it was not an easy feat.

"I drove him off," Jeffrey slurred one night against the bottle of beer Michael had brought him.

Michael gave a grunt of disagreement and shook his head. "No, man," he said, the last word coupled with a hiccup. "Stop thinkin' that. He was jus'..." he trailed, pausing to swallow down another large sip from his own bottle, "jus' too curious for his own damn good. An' I-- I told him too much."

Jeffrey shook his head, groaning as his brain swam inside his skull at the movement and his stomach plummeted in warning. "He was a prisoner. I made him a prisoner in his own damn home. Fuck, I'm a monster."

There was very little Michael could say to make his friend feel better and he knew it. Plus, the level of alcohol in his bloodstream made it all the more difficult for him to come up with anything at all.

"Not a monster," was all he managed, words slurred, but said with complete conviction. "Monsters don't make art, Jeff. Monsters make... anti-art. Bad things and like... excre-- excire-- poop. Jensen's... lot better'n poop."

Jeffrey's only reply was another groan of obvious quiet anguish, eyes closing with his grief.

Still, they persevered, Michael and Jeffrey taking turns tending to each other's shops as the other spent the daylight hours searching the streets. Tom took up the night shift, looking under bridges and trash bins, confronting the homeless on every corner, upturning dirty mattresses and newspapers. All to no avail.

It never occurred to them they were looking in the wrong places. It never occurred to them the Jensen model simply didn't wish to be found.

:::

Even while time seemed to steal away details of his old friends' faces, there was one face it could never erase from the Jensen model's memory: that of the tall, handsome man who'd crashed into him on his first day out in the world. So clear were his recollections, it was as though the Jensen model had known the man his entire life. The bright, wide smile, the exact location of each dimple and mole, the shining eyes of questionable color and flop of brown hair. Many a night the Jensen model had spent imagining pleasuring the mysterious _Jay_ instead of that evening's customer and every time, the ache within him only grew.

So, one can imagine the mix of shock and fear and excitement that shot through the Jensen model the night they met for the second time.

After finding his usual establishments dry of business, the Jensen model made his way across town through back alleys and dark streets to an older bar he'd only been to once or twice before. There he hid in the shadow of an overhang, watching the bar's patrons stumble out one by one, judging sobriety by their staggering swaggers.

The Jensen model chose the tall, broad-shouldered man when he took two steps past the threshold and nearly stumbled immediately to his knees, one hand grabbing purchase against the brick wall. It was too dark for the Jensen model to make out the man's face, but that hardly mattered. The face was unimportant.

"Hey, need a hand?" he asked, voice pitched low as he sidled up beside the stranger.

The man shook his head and waved him away. "'m good," he said, but the Jensen model knew better than to stop there.

"C'mon," he said and stiffly curved an arm around the man's waist, trying to help him stand upright. The jacket the Jensen model wore gave the illusion of bulk and in his months out in the world, he'd perfected the art of making himself appear more solid than he actually was.

Still, his tricks were largely superficial, so when the man began to lean on him for support, the Jensen model felt himself nearly crumple to the ground and let out a quiet, muffled whimper.

"Sorry, sorry," the man murmured and even through the slur of the booze-soaked words, the Jensen model recognized the voice, the low drawl and intonation.

"Oh," he said to himself in quiet amazement and stared at the flushed cheeks of the face he still remembered so well.

Jared finally managed to stand himself upright, took one swaying step backward and then attempted to focus on the face before him, a slow recognition coloring his features. "Hey, you..." he started and, in a panic, the Jensen model raised the collar of his jacket, attempting to hide behind the fabric. Jared continued to stare at him for a long moment, a strange expression twisting his lips and eyebrows before he spoke again. "Y' okay?"

Not trusting his voice, the Jensen model nodded rigidly and his pants immediately became roomier in the crotch area.

"Kay," Jared replied, doubt clear in his tone before he took a breath and weakly raised an arm, one finger pointing forward. "You look really familiar. We met before?"

The Jensen model whimpered quietly to himself and shook his head. His depreciating penis gave an echoing whimper of defeat.

"Really? Y'sure?"

And, for fear of his cock inverting completely, the Jensen model chose to turn and dart off into the darkness.

"Hey!" Jared called behind him. "Hey, wait! Come back!"

But the Jensen model didn't stop. And he didn't look back.

:::

The Jensen model was so shaken by his brief encounter with the mysterious handsome man, that the next few evenings were incomparably bad. He was off his guard and misjudged the potential interest of a customer on more than one occasion, suffering a blow to the cheek and a small puncture wound to the abdomen that he'd had to rectify with a piece of duct tape he'd found in a trash bin.

One night, with his money running low and his options for shelter growing scarce, he was approached by a hooded figure.

"Hey," came a low, male voice as the figure slunk its way out of the shadows and into the light.

Though the he did not appear wholly unfriendly, the Jensen model was not accustomed to being approached by anyone; he had found it typically in his best interest to choose when and where he was noticed. More importantly, it was in his best interest to choose when _not_ to be noticed; _this_ man had caught him unaware.

"Hello," he responded, trying his best not to appear in any way frightened or surprised. "Can I, uh-- can I help you?"

The man took a step closer and, on instinct, the Jensen model stepped further into shadow. The man was far too sober and, if allowed much closer, would doubtlessly discern the various features that made the Jensen model so very different from everyone else. And that sort of revelation had never ended pleasantly for him.

But the man only smiled, slow and easy. Knowingly.

"No," he said, and it was then that the Jensen model began to realize where he'd seen the man before;the light hair and squinty eyes conjured up an all-too familiar memory. "But, I think I can help you." He held out his hand and the Jensen model eyed it with equal parts hope and trepidation. "I'm Chad," he said. "Come with me."

The name immediately called to mind a voice, low and friendly and the Jensen model was filled with a strange sense of safety he couldn't explain. It was to that comfort he clung when he met the man's eyes again and took his hand.

:::

In all his time out in the world -- which, by this point, had begun to exceed the amount of time he'd spent sequestered in Jeffrey's workshop -- the Jensen model had never before been on a boat. In fact, he'd been swimming only once, which was enough to know that he found the activity slightly terrifying, as he possessed a certain buoyancy others lacked. And, while obviously never in much danger of drowning, he still couldn't find much enjoyment in simply coasting along the surface of the water, forever incapable of actually _swimming_ or diving into the depths in the manner so many others enjoyed.

But the boat he found himself on then, Chad's boat, was _spectacular_. It reminded the Jensen model of something from one of Michael's stories, an amazing and exquisite vehicle made for a king. And, somehow, the Jensen model had suddenly found himself in the company of such a king.

The Jensen model soon discovered that Chad was an attentive host and traveling companion, providing him with an abundance of food and drink on the voyage as well as a good deal of entertainment in the form of women, men, live music and frequent card games. The trip itself lasted only a day or two and, though the Jensen model was anxious and intrigued to see this strange land to which his new friend was escorting him, he was sad to have to say goodbye to the people he'd befriended on the boat.

"You know, I've been watching you," Chad told him once they reached shore. The Jensen model had been standing on the deck of the ship for hours prior to docking, watching the collection of blue-green trees in the distance become more and more pronounced and more and more beautiful as they neared the island.

The Jensen model smiled, warmth lining the insides of his hollow skin. "Yeah?"

"For awhile now," Chad said, stepping onto the dock, one hand extended to help the Jensen model step down onto the wooden slats. "You're... different. Intriguing."

It didn't sound like a word the man used often and the Jensen model wasn't entirely certain how to interpret such a description. Still, he returned the smile all the same, trying to mirror the smirk Chad so frequently wore, though the shape of the Jensen model's plastic lips prevented him from quite accomplishing it.

"Not like anyone I've seen before," Chad continued, guiding the Jensen model onto the island, following a path off the wooden dock and into a thick forest of exotic-looking trees and large plants with brightly-colored flowers. It was everything the Jensen model had imagined it would be, Michael's fantastic descriptions come to life.

"Yes, I know," he replied, distracted as he stared, wide-eyed at the surrounding vegetation, the startling sound of strange birds, the bray and buzz of unfamiliar animals and insects in the distance. "I get that a lot."

Chad chuckled, a low warm sound. "There's a lot of potential in you, Jensen."

"Yes, you've said."

"And, I'm not the only one who's noticed."

The Jensen model's smile faded ever so slightly, a strange uneasiness knocking against his air-filled insides at the cryptic tone of his new friend's voice.

Chad laughed, clapped a hand on the Jensen model's shoulder and squeezed. "Relax, man. Being noticed is a good thing in this place. Trust me."

Trust was something Jeffrey had made a part of the Jensen model's very design. He'd been created to be open and willing, eagerly trusting in the hands of any who possessed him. But, even so, there was a nagging deep in the pit of the Jensen model's being, a nagging he couldn't explain or quantify.

And so he chose to ignore it.

Sadly, it was not the Jensen model's first mistake. Nor would it be his last.

:::

By far, the most immediate and profound luxury the island provided the Jensen model was a home of his very own. It wasn't a spectacular space by any definition: a small, single-bedroom hut that came with an equally small kitchen, bathroom and living area. But it was the only living space he'd ever had of his very own, and he reveled in it utterly, awed by the space it provided and the protection against the sun, wind and rain.

On top of that, there was the constant supply of delicious food, always cooked and served to perfection; by whom the Jensen model did not know. Drink was also never ending and entertainment of nearly every persuasion was to be found at any time of the day or night for every inhabitant.

Even after hearing all of Michael's amazing tales, the Jensen model had still never imagined such a place. For, in addition to the shelter and the food and the entertainment, the people on the island didn't treat him any differently than they treated each other. Nobody stared at him in revulsion or morbid curiosity, nobody tried to poke him with a sharp object or call him a freak. They let him exist and, what's more, they let him participate and enjoy and _live_. And live, he did. Quite happily.

And, on his third day, Chad brought him a gift.

"His name's Dean," Chad explained with his ever-present smirk as he held out the thick, roped lead. "Dean the Donkey. He's yours."

Confused, the Jensen model curled his stiff fingers around the rope and the animal took a reluctant step toward him, brushing him with its snout. "Oh. Uh--" he looked down at the creature, though it didn't look back, seemingly bored with the proceedings. "What do I do with him?"

Chad laughed, a harsh bark of a sound before giving a wink. "Just what you do with everyone else, Jensen. What you were born to do."

:::

Several months had passed and Jeffrey was no better than he'd been the day the Jensen model had gone missing from his life. Their signs and fliers had gone unanswered and nobody Michael or Tom had ever spoken with could give them any clues. There were a few who occasionally insinuated that they knew something, but they were all largely homeless and very possibly insane or _not_ homeless and quite definitely insane.

As much as it pained them to admit, they were starting to lose hope.

One afternoon, Jeffrey sat at his workbench idly sketching his latest idea onto a sheet of paper. It was sad and uninspired, but there was nothing to be done about it, his pen drifted over the paper by rote, slow and passionless.

Behind him, he heard the quiet jingle of the bell he'd had attached to his door since the Jensen model's disappearance, alerting him of either a patron or Michael coming to pay a visit. Given his lack of output over the past few months, Jeffrey believed it was most likely the later and sighed softly.

"Please go, Michael," he said, still staring at the line of black he drew along the paper. "I'm working."

"Sorry?" came a voice that most certainly didn't belong to Michael.

Jeffrey swung around in his chair to look at the stranger, taking in the man's tall, looming figure with a curious eye. "Oh," he said, clearly surprised by the man's presence. "Can I help you?"

"Sorry, are you--" the man continued, lifting a familiar sheet of white paper to his face and reading the printed text, "Jeffrey Morgan?"

"Yes," Jeffrey replied, his voice a quiet rush of air as he stumbled to his feet. His heart gave a hopeful lurch in his chest, but Jeffrey was far too realistic a man to let himself quite follow it yet, too cynical to believe it could be anything but the worst news imaginable.

The smile the man gave him then, while bright and slightly reassuring, did little to entirely abate Jeffrey's fears.

"You're still looking for him, aren't you?" the man asked, sounding almost as hopeful as Jeffrey was beginning to feel. He took a step closer, one hand outstretched before him in greeting. "Hi, I'm Jared. I know where he is."

:::

The alcohol on the island was unlike any the Jensen model had ever previously consumed, but it was absolutely necessary. Each drink came in a different, strikingly fluorescent color, sweet and bitter at once. Each drink cooled and warmed him at the same time, coated his insides and made him feel simultaneously light and heavy, made the world blur along the edges. The only solace it provided was to temporarily steal away the horrid memories of the night before. Chad gave him one after another while a woman with an indistinct face wrapped her hand around his plastic cock, stroking him clumsily, and a man touched him from behind. It was exhilarating and terrifying and nauseating all at once, but though Jensen's mind tried to fight it, his body could not.

His mind swam with heavy groans, only some of which actually belonged to him, and flashes of images he tried desperately to shut out. When he could manage to open his eyes, his vision was filled with a writhing mass of arms and legs, naked bodies undulating and arching against one another, sweat-slicked and sex-starved. He was no longer surprised to find that not all of them were human.

In the midst of it all, there was only one face the Jensen model recognized, that familiar smirk aimed at him.

"There, there, Jensen," it said to him, fingers brushing over the Jensen model's fevered forehead. He trembled at the touch as something large and thick entered him from behind. "You like it, I know you do. I'm just giving you what you need."

He whimpered in reply, eyes slipping shut as his body was used, pushed into and roughly clung to. The nature of his skin prevented him from bruising, but he felt every harsh touch and thrust all the same, doubling forward in pain.

But, even in pain, this was what Jeffrey had designed him to do and he shut his eyes and pleaded raggedly, "More. _Please_ , more."

:::

However hopeful he was that the Jensen model might still be alive, Michael was still less than impressed by Jared's story, which he was finally hearing in full as he, Jared, Jeffrey and Tom sat in the belly of a helicopter on their way to what Jared had referred to as Donkey Show Island.

"This guy is a _friend_ of yours?" he shouted as though trying to be heard above the roar of the propellers. (Shouting was, of course, completely unnecessary as the headsets on their helmets enabled them to hear each other quite clearly.)

Jared gave a pained smile and shrugged. "For lack of a better word, yeah. Kinda. He means well, I swear, he just... doesn't have the best judgment sometimes."

" _Doesn't have the best judgment sometimes_?" Michael shouted yet again. "Unironically thinking a mullet might be a sweet 'do is exercising poor judgment, not _kidnapping someone and making them FUCK A DONKEY!_ "

Sighing, Jared sat back and turned his attention to Jeffrey, who'd spent the entire time staring out the window at the expanse of blue beneath them, his face slowly turning a pale shade of green. "Hey," Jared said softly, resting a hand on the man's knee. " We'll find him, I promise."

"Dude, how do we know you're not just like him?" Michael scoffed, practically lurching forward, though the seatbelt prevented him from getting very far. "Why should we take your word for it? I mean, for all we know, you two are working together and we're just the latest three suckers stupid enough to fall for your shit. God, you're some sick fucks, you know that? And that's something, man. I have an extensive porn collection, I've seen some twisted, twisted shit in my day."

Beside Michael, Tom went very slightly pale.

"I'm not," Jared said, clearly trying his hardest to keep his voice calm. "And I don't-- I know there isn't any reason for you to believe me, but just _trust me_ , okay? Please. Chad... he has problems, alright? Issues. But, it's my fault he even knows your friend-- _Jensen_ " he quickly corrected himself, a frown tugging at his lips. "It's my fault he knows Jensen even exists."

The admission knocked some of the wind out of Michael's sails and he said nothing at all for a moment. Then: "Huh?"

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Jared began to explain. "A few months back, I, uh... well, I ran into him, knocked him to the ground. Jensen, I mean. Right outside your store, actually. It was an accident and I felt like an ass, so I offered to buy him a drink as an apology, but Chad kinda showed up right in the middle of it and I think scared him off or something because he completely disappeared. But, I couldn't... man, I couldn't stop thinking about him, drove Chad fucking _crazy_ talking about him all the time. I don't know, I just-- I _felt_ something with him, y'know? This weird _connection_ or something."

Michael rolled his eyes.

"I'm serious," Jared insisted and even Jeffrey was watching him then. Tom, too. "Just something about the way he looked at me, I can't explain it..." Noticing the way the others were staring, curious and skeptical at the same time, Jared quickly shook his head and continued, a hand scratching uncomfortably across the front of his shirt. "Anyway, a couple weeks ago, I saw him again. I'd been out drinking with Chad, got-- man, I was just friggin' _hammered_. So, I tried to walk home, only Jensen caught me outside, tried to help me. And, I don't know what I said or what I did, but he ran away again just like the last time. But, Chad wasn't there, so I couldn't even blame him. Tried to, though. Told him about what'd happened and he kinda... well, he said some things."

Beside him, Jeffrey went tense. " _Some things?_ " he inquired, tone slipping dangerously.

Jared shifted again, clearly growing increasingly uncomfortable. It had occurred to him earlier that should something go wrong, should they not trust him or understand his intentions, he was- well, for lack of a more eloquent term, he was fucked. If nothing else, he was quite clearly outnumbered and Tom alone was nearly as tall and as broad as him. It wouldn't be much of a fight.

"He said-- let's just say he said enough, alrigh'?" Jared replied, attempting to put a little more space between himself and Jeffrey. "And, then I found the flier in his room and kinda... put it all together."

Another uncomfortable silence settled between them, though 'silent' was perhaps not the most ideal term considering the furious whirl and whip of the propellers above them.

Finally, Michael broke the tension, the microphone in his headset crackling as he said, "If it turns out you're lying, man, I'll seriously castrate you myself. With my fuckin' _teeth_."

Instinctively, Jared's legs pressed closer together, but he nodded and gave Michael a weak, but understanding smile. "Duly noted."

:::

Though the Jensen model could barely see anything at all through the haze of alcohol, he could tell that the crowd was bigger than it had been the night before based purely on the sounds: the open, harsh laughter and clinking glasses, the smattering of sarcastic applause. It could all be heard above the steady pulse of music that shook the floor beneath him, swirled and rocked him forward and back, his legs unsteady, stomach lurching.

He stood in the middle of a two-inch tall raised wooden platform in the middle of a field, nearly naked and trembling from the inside out, hands clutched before him. The alcohol in his system was meant to give him warmth, he knew, but he felt frigid, meant to make him even more willing, but his reluctance was growing by the second. The floor seemed to spin beneath him and his head along with it and every laugh and jeer hurled in his direction cut to the quick.

The music stopped abruptly, cut short by a quiet squeal of feedback before Chad's familiar voice cut through the din. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, what you've all been waiting for," he proclaimed theatrically into the microphone, one hand landing on the back of the Jensen model's neck, heavy enough to nearly knock him over. "Our main event! Please put your hands together -- or, _ahem_ , place them somewhere else should you feel the need -- for Jensen and his delectable lover, Dean!"

Punctuating the introduction, Chad gave a shove, sending the Jensen model to the ground. Reflexes slowed, he went down in a heap, catching himself on hands and knees, his shoulders hunched as the crowed again broke out into harsh laughter. Wincing and aching, the Jensen model tried to push himself up, wobbling unsteadily and looking up in time to see Chad leading the donkey toward him. With a loud bray, Dean gave his opinion of the situation.

"Born to do it," Chad reminded him and, resigned, the Jensen model lifted his hand to take the rope.

But, just as he was about to take it, a sudden gust of wind kicked up, so powerful that it knocked the Jensen model off the platform and back against a nearby tree, so powerful that even Chad seemed shaken. It was accompanied by an extremely loud, flapping sound that grew steadily in intensity.

"Holy shit!" Chad exclaimed, looking up and staggering back just as the Jensen model noticed an enormous, black helicopter descend from the sky.

Terrified, the Jensen model stayed exactly where he was and stared as a body slowly began to lower itself down a rope that could barely be seen against the night sky. When the figure reached the ground, it turned abruptly, seemingly searching, as a second figure began to lower itself down the rope.

"You!" the first figure shouted, voice muffled as it stalked over. The Jensen model panicked and pressed himself further against the tree, hard enough that he could feel the bark digging dangerously into his back. But, a moment later, he realized the figure wasn't going for him, but for Chad, grabbing him by the front of the shirt and yanking. "What the fuck're you _doin'_ out here, man? Are you _insane_?!"

Chad fell forward, his eyes wide. " _Jay?!_ "

And, even through the chaos and the alcohol and the gut-wrenching terror, the Jensen model still recognized that name. His breath caught high in his throat, a rush of heat and hope flooding through him just before a pair of rough hands grabbed at him, yanking him effortlessly away from the safety of the tree.

" _Jensen_. Jensen, you okay? God, please tell me you're okay."

Still panicked, it took a moment for the Jensen model to recognize the voice. It was rougher than he'd ever heard it, urgent and panicked, but still somehow comforting. The Jensen model crumpled into it immediately, stiff arms wrapping around the warm body of his old, familiar friend. "Jeffrey!"

Jeffrey's smile was nearly blinding and the Jensen model found himself enveloped in warm, strong arms, feeling truly safe for the first time in months. "Oh, Jesus, I was so worried, Jensen. So fuckin' worried," Jeffrey murmured against his ear, arms still tight around him. It was smothering, but nice. Comforting in such a way he'd begun to think he'd never experience again. Warm, dry lips brushed against his forehead and the Jensen model shivered slightly before Jeffrey suddenly pulled back. "C'mon. We gotta get you out of here."

And then he was being dragged forward, toward the dangling piece of rope, the harsh buffeting of the wind knocking him off his feet and threatening to send him flying, held down only by the grip of Jeffrey's hand around his wrist.

"Hang on!" Jeffrey shouted over the noise of the propeller as he wrapped the Jensen model's arms around his middle, reached up to grab hold of the rope. Still more than a little terrified, the Jensen model did as instructed, clinging tight to Jeffrey as two figures from above began to pull the rope.

In the chaos of the reunion, the Jensen model had lost sight of Chad and Jared, but he'd not forgotten and, when he felt the firm grip of a hand around his ankle, he was unsurprised (and disappointed) to find Chad holding on. He kicked and fought as well as he could manage, the movement making him lose his grip on Jeffrey, making him slip slowly down so that he was barely clinging to the waistband of Jeffrey's pants.

"Jensen!" Jeffrey shouted above him and the Jensen model struggled in vain to keep his hold as Jeffrey clung to the rope. "Jensen, hang on!"

"I can't!" he screamed, panicked and desperate. In his mind, he saw them all falling, the weight of Chad and himself and-- and _Jeffrey_ too much, saw them dropping landing in a broken heap on the ground. And, in that moment, he knew there was only one thing to be done.

He let go.

:::

Of course, in the end, it wasn't the impact of the fall that did it. Chad hit the ground with a sickening crunch and Jensen, as could only be expected, bounced right off, not quite as gracefully as a rubber ball. But, with nothing to ground him and nothing to cling to, the wind took hold and whipped him violently, tossed and threw him around like a ragdoll.

In the end, it was a tree branch that did it, a sharp puncture right above his hip that made all air and all life he'd ever possessed flood its way out instantaneously. Aside from the initial _pop_ , he barely even made a sound.

Jeffrey carried the remains of Jensen's limp, frail body on the way back, clutched him tight against his chest, his eyes red with unshed tears. Not a single word was spoken.

:::

Jeffrey's work bench was cleared to make room for him, the thick, lifeless plastic stretched out reverently upon it. As Jeffrey couldn't bear to do it himself, much of the responsibility fell to Michael and Tom who meticulously and lovingly arranged him, smoothing out the wrinkles where they could and crossing Jensen's arms over his chest.

Jared watched the proceedings from a few feet away, his head bowed respectfully. Though he suspected the pain and guilt he felt equally matched (and, in some ways, possibly exceeded) that of other three men, he was reluctant to interfere, quietly grateful that they were permitting him to witness even this portion of the proceedings.

"I'm sorry," Michael whispered once he was done, a finger brushing the smooth plastic of Jensen's cheek. "Should've done more to warn you 'bout that shit or... I don't know. Looked harder. We just-- we _tried_ , Jen. I promise you, we tried." His voice shook at the end and Tom wrapped an arm around his friend, pulled him closer. Michael leaned into him, turned to hide his face against Tom's broad chest and, in an effort to give them some privacy, Jared looked away, focused on Jensen's sad, deflated legs.

Jeffrey went next, though he didn't say a word. Instead, he only brushed a hand over Jensen's chest, settled right where an ordinary person's heart would've been and hunched forward, quietly sobbing. He stood like that for a long time and nobody said a word; nothing at all could be heard in the shop but the quiet sound of tears being shed.

Only when Jeffrey stood up again did Jared take a hesitant step forward.

"Is it okay..." he asked quietly, nodding down at Jensen's limp form. "Can I?"

Jeffrey's gaze met Jared's and he appeared to think about it for a moment before finally giving a nod and stepping back to make room for him.

Hesitantly, as though Jeffrey or Michael or even Tom would change their mind at any time, Jared stepped forward, rested a hand along the bench beneath Jensen's body. And, for the first time, Jared was able to truly and wholly admire the person -- and, yes, to Jared, Jensen was and had always been very much a person -- he'd spent the past several months only imagining, endlessly thinking about and obsessing over. His gaze swept along foot and leg and thigh, up higher over hips and stomach and the broad stretch of his shoulders and, finally, up to his face. The hopelessly loose plastic made the features sickly distorted, but to Jared, Jensen was still as beautiful as he'd always remembered, the mouth full and lush as ever, the freckles delicate along the bridge of his nose, lashes sinfully long.

He felt cheated suddenly, and the anger coiled and sparked inside him, making one hand tighten into a fist. Forcing himself to push it away, he opened his mouth to speak instead, voice hushed and low enough that the others couldn't hear him.

"Hi," he whispered, voice shaky and apologetic. "You, uh... don't really know me, I don't think, but I just... I wanted to say I'm sorry. For-- oh man, for a lot of things. For knocking you down that one day and being really drunk that other time and not getting to you sooner and not-- I don't know, just not _finding_ you sooner, I guess. Before Chad." His words got caught then, blocked by the lump in this throat and he swallowed tightly as he dropped a hand over Jensen's, squeezed the wilted plastic like there was actual definition there, and schooled his breathing before continuing. "I shoulda--" he said, voice still strained. "I shoulda figured it out and I shoulda grabbed you when I had the chance and held on. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

It was more than he'd planned to say, probably more than he should have, but his throat closed up entirely then and, without thinking, he leaned in, closed his eyes and ghosted a breath over Jensen's lips, a stolen, light kiss.

At first, it was exactly as he'd expected, dry and too smooth, cool and unresponsive. But, as he pulled away, he swore he felt a brush of air against his lips and a familiar voice.

"Please," it whispered and Jared froze, half sure that he'd only imagined it.

Then, right before his eyes, he saw Jensen's flattened face begin to slowly fill out once more as though someone was blowing air into him from the inside. The voice came through again, a quiet whimper and Jared pulled back enough to see that his entire body was gradually filling with air, plastic popping and stretching to accommodate, taking up more and more room.

"Holy fuck," Michael breathed and rushed in to get closer, Tom and Jeffrey just behind him.

Remembering the puncture wound on Jensen's hip, Jared let go of Jensen's hand to search for it and was shocked by what he felt. Not only was the hole no longer there, but it had been replaced by a scar, slightly raised and warm to the touch.

"He's alive," came an awed voice and Jared realized it was the first time he'd ever heard Tom say a word.

Beside him, Jeffrey made a sound. "He's _real_."

Jared lifted his gaze to Jensen's face and found the man was right. Smooth plastic had given way to clear, defined jaw and cheekbones covered in a healthy layer of stubble. The eyelashes were still as long as they'd been before, but somehow even fuller, the freckles fainter, but still clearly apparent against the slightly darker skin tone. His lips were still lush and full, but Jared watched in fascination as Jensen was able to close his mouth for the first time, watched the bob of his adam's apple when he swallowed, the flick of tongue over his full, bottom lip.

"He's beautiful," Jared whispered and, a second later, felt his insides heat further when Jensen opened startlingly green eyes for the first time. Jared let out a bubble of a laugh, relief and joy and pure amazement seeping though. "Hey, man."

Jensen swallowed again, blinked, his gaze locked on Jared's. And then smiled very slowly, one corner curling up before the other. "Still owe me a coffee," he said, voice thin and scratchy from lack of use.

It was the sweetest sound Jared had ever heard.

:::

It took some time for Jensen to get accustomed to being real. While his movements were more fluid and came much more easily, he had to learn to adjust to the weight he carried and the effect it had on his sense of gravity. Additionally, he had to readjust to taste and touch and sensation all over again, which was exciting and awkward in turns.

As promised, Jared took him out for coffee and, when Jensen showed disappointment in finding that people still stared at him so openly, Jared laughed, long and loud.

"You're gorgeous, Jensen. People're gonna notice, better get used to it."

"Oh," Jensen replied, relaxing somewhat, though he still felt largely uncomfortable; it wasn't something to which he thought he'd ever grow accustomed. "Still a pain in the ass," he muttered under his breath and was rewarded with the sound of Jared's warm laugh yet again.

"Think how I feel," Jared said, grinning over at him. "I'm the one who's gotta fight 'em all off."

It took a moment for Jensen to get Jared's meaning and, when he did, he felt the strange sensation of heat blossom across his cheeks, coupled with a fluttering deep in the pit of his new stomach. He quickly decided _that_ was a sensation he enjoyed.

:::

There were some things that hadn't carried over in Jensen's transformation, the largest being his sexual appetite. It was still a healthy one to be sure and Jensen spent no small amount of time testing out the shape and weight of his new, _real_ penis and testicles, but he no longer felt that pleasuring other people was his calling, no longer felt the overwhelming hunger for it. On top of that, while Jeffrey had designed him to be overly trusting and agreeable, the new, _real_ Jensen felt no such inclination. His memories of Donkey Show Island still hung heavy in the recesses of his mind, a dark and constant reminder of what he'd gone through before and what he'd refuse to ever let happen to him again. His trust lay solely in Jeffrey, Michael, Tom and Jared, the only four people who had ever shown him real care when it had mattered and he highly doubted that would ever change.

None of them, not even Jeffrey, was sad to see this change in Jensen's personality as they were all wise enough to recognize that it was not only for the best, but wholly understandable.

To some, it may have appeared as though Jensen wasn't as happy as he'd once been. After all, his smile wasn't as freely given, he lacked the childlike innocence he'd once had, and the spring and lightness in his step had vanished. But, those of that opinion were, quite frankly, fools who looked only at the surface and had never seen Jensen in the presence of his Jared.

For one coffee had led into many others, into dinners and afternoon picnics and swimming lessons, into a steady and seemingly unbreakable friendship. It led into their second kiss, as tentative and hesitant as the first, led into their third, hungrier and wetter than the previous two. Led into kiss after kiss after kiss until they both lost count, lips numb and tongues sore. Led into Jensen ducking into the curve of Jared's neck, breathing in the scent of dirt and sweat, tasting and memorizing every inch. Led into Jared fumbling at Jensen's jeans, finding him hard and ready, into Jensen gasping at the sensation, startled and desperate, his teeth scraping Jared's ear. Led into the heady sensation of skin on skin, the burn in his thighs as he straddled Jared's waist, the scratch of blunt nails over the rise of his ass and the aching stretch as Jared filled him completely. Led into hot breaths and shuddered moans, into Jensen rolling his hips downward, taking him further, into Jared's hand splayed over Jensen's heart, feeling the ragged thud against his palm. Led into Jensen coming sharply, harder than he ever had before, in thick, ropey strands that coated Jared's chest and stomach, their hands, Jared shaking beneath him. Led into them both collapsing, exhausted and spent, the air thick with the smell of sex, skin slick and sticky, breaths ragged.

Led into Jared brushing a thumb along the raised scar that would forever mar Jensen's hip, Jensen leaning down to circle a mole on Jared's cheek with his tongue, into hushed, murmured words and yet more kisses and... of course... into happily ever after.

 **end.**


End file.
